Tag Archives: Tragedy

A Poem For Those Of Us Who Can’t Fit The Big Picture In Our Tiny Apartments

Every three seconds

An orphan is made,

A war is begun,

Someone doesn’t get laid,

Someone dies of starvation,

A champion strikes out,

Yet whether or not I want pizza’s

All I’m thinking about.

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And He Didn’t Even Get A Chance To Write A Title

Way way back in time

Before to burp was an imposition

And male dinosaurs ruled the earth

And female dinosaurs stayed in the kitchen…

Editor’s Note: This poem was never finished as the poet was brutally crushed to death by a vengeful time-traveling she-brontasaurus who is also your mother.

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The Inverted Cockroach Speaks Out

I’m lying on the floor

Rocking back and forth

And sobbing

But no one stops

Or offers sympathy.

Racist A**holes.

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Zero is the number

Of hours I slept

Before a 2:00 AM shuttle

To the airport today.


Zero is the number

Of friendly cute girls

In the security line

That I met on the way.


Zero is the number

Of lightning storms I missed

Flying into Houston

A half hour late


Zero is the number

Of minutes I had

To get from my landing

To my connecting flight’s gate.


Zero is the number

Of on-time flights departing

In the 40-plane lineup

That the airport had grown.


Zero is the number

That shows up in red

In the battery section

Of my cellular phone.


Zero’s the number

In military time

That my plane finally landed

At my final city.


Zero is the number

Out of one checked bag

That was at the airport

Waiting for me.


Zero is the number

Of poems technically written

By me on Tuesday

June 28.


Zero is the number

Of f**ks I give

That this hard-fought travel poem’s

Published 12 minutes late.

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Updating the Fire Code

Yellow tape around the mound
That used to be a house.
Not a creature stirs there anymore,
Not even my pet mouse.

I know it was an accident,
But it must not happen anymore.
I move to outlaw chimney climbing.
Santa will have to use the door.

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Brian’s Mother

It was a positive sign and a terrible truth,
A cross the week after, an x made of pink.
All her hopes and dreams were replaced by two lines.
Her destiny lay in the sink.

She didn’t know what she wanted to do with her life,
But she knew precisely what she must.
It didn’t matter that she herself was a child
Or whether or not it was just.

All that mattered to her was an image
That sang and laughed inside her soul
Of the tiny unborn child
That had come to make her whole.

Seven months and a ton of vitamins later
She’d painted the bedroom blue
And hung a tiny mobile
And purchased the baby shoes.

All the while she sang and smiled,
And now and then she wept,
Her entire life an accident
That kicked her while she slept.

Thirty days and thirty nights
And the sun rose, orange and gray.
Thirty times more came the morning sun,
Rosy pink, each happy day.

Until arose the sixtieth sun,
And the mother’s sweet sixteen,
And the golden sky brought a bolt of pain,
And the hospital bed was clean.

The doctor came, all dressed in white,
The child’s hair was red.
And the words “his name is Brian”
Were the last her mother said.

And so the girl lived in the blue room
Amidst her mother’s love.
And an angel looks on her daughter Brian
From a happy place above,

And the angel never once considered
Her life to have been a loss.
And she smiles, remembering how she was saved
By that small magenta cross.

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For Boston

Sticks and stones
May shatter bones.
Steel tears hearts asunder.
Smoke and fire
Are the devil’s choir,
Who’s songs are mankind’s blunder.

But through the violence
And moments of silence
We make a noble choice:
We remember those
Slain by our foes.
We carry on their voice.

So bombings and such,
Our fears they touch,
But our hope cannot be shattered.
Toll Heaven’s bell
For those who fell,
And remember that they mattered.

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